He Travels Across The Time
by OMGimprocrastinating
Summary: A continuation to Travel to The 19th Century By a Bash To The Head and Hark! Watson Returns. I made Sherlock Holmes (Jeremy Brett) return the visits made by John Watson (Martin Freeman) by having him come over to the 21st Century
1. Chapter 1

John finished packing the last of his things before standing up with a sigh of accomplishment. It was an attestment to the fact that he did not have as many belongings as Sherlock has because it took him only two days when he wasn't out on his shifts or sleeping or eating, to be able to fit what he owned into three boxes and a duffel bag.

He looked around his room and felt a sense of sadness and but it could not compare the twinge in his chest when he stepped down to the common room where he and Sherlock have spent their days entertaining clients or joking and bantering with each other. Christ, he missed the sod, but it has been more than a year and he felt ready to move on.

Sherlock's things were still in the flat and he wondered what Mycroft or Mrs Hudson will be doing with them once John's moves out of the flat. The landlady surely needed the rent and he doubted Mycroft as the type to hold out clearing up the place because of sentiment. All John needed that would remind him of Sherlock was his memory of the man that has been properly chronicled by the newspaper clippings he has gathered into an album packed together with his books and his online blog which he has changed into private mode to read on his own leisure. Maybe he would make a book out of it in the future as soon as he gets the time to compile it properly and get an editor who would be interested in his work. Maybe not under the bio section, but under fiction, surely.

So deep was his musings that he did not hear the footfalls on the stairs until a knock came from the door. He turned around and saw Greg popping his head through the open door before the DI stepped in when he saw John standing in the middle of the room.

"Done packing then?" the DI said, turning around to look at the room as if he would be able to spot any of John's things left over among Sherlock's rubbish that Mrs Hudson has loyally kept in its organised chaos while also making sure that the room was clean by daily dusting.

John nodded, putting his hands on his hips. "Yeah, I'm done. Thanks for wanting to help me carry them to my new place. It's not-"

Suddenly there came a thump coming from Sherlock's old room, making John and Lestrade widen their eyes in surprise.

"What- Where- Did that come from Sherlock's room?" Lestrade asked, looking towards the mentioned area. "Something fell down?"

"No," John replied in a hushed voice, "The window's shut and there isn't-"

Suddenly there came another thump and a cry, making both men look at each other before quickly making their way towards Sherlock's room as stealthily as a DI and an ex-army doctor can.

John let Lestrade take the lead and when they both reached the door, John's body tensed in readiness for danger as Lestrade gripped the handle to Sherlock's room. Before the DI could twist the knob open, the door was suddenly flung outwards, nearly hitting Lestrade on the face. A man ran through the door but John quickly made a lunge for him and the two went down on the floor hard. Flailing limbs tried to take the other out but one man was no match for two because quickly, Lestrade managed to restrain the intruder's arms while John managed to sat himself on the man's legs.

Lestrade growled. "Alright, you. What are you doing here?!"

The man stammered, focused on Lestrade who was nearly nose-to-nose with him that John can barely see his face by his perch on the man's legs. "I-I don't know! Something must've happened! I blacked out you see, or it must've been my sleep-walking again, I don't know! Oh, this is horrible-"

The upper-crust voice sounded familiar to John and he instantly knew why it felt out of place in its panicked tone when he at last managed to look around Lestrade's shoulder which was obscuring the intruder's face.

John gaped. "Holmes?!"

The man suddenly stopped blubbering and he turned his green eyes towards John with familiar intensity that the doctor could barely breathe.

"Doctor Watson!"


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade scrutinised the dark-haired stranger from across the room. The man was wearing what looked like pajama bottoms and a long white billowy top and after John took a good look at him, the doctor gave the man a robe (that Lestrade thought belonged to Sherlock) and pair of house slippers to use.

It has certainly been an exciting introduction to another of the Holmes' clan, which is par for course considering how he first met Sherlock and Mycroft. John seemed to know the man although not as familiar as he was with Sherlock but certainly at ease with him like he would be with an old mate. The DI's curiosity was piqued.

"Known John long then?" Lestrade asked as he watched Holmes-first-name-not-yet-known taking a personal tour of the common room with an odd sort of attention that the DI wondered whether there was anything wrong with the man in the head especially since Holmes insisted earlier on that he did not know how he came to be inside Sherlock's room. Then again, Holmes might've been playing him because as soon as he saw John, the man's demeanor changed that made Lestrade remember Sherlock who often put on different facade to get something out of witnesses or suspects. Also, John didn't look too worried and after he made sure there were nothing worse than bruises on their bodies after the scuffle, the doctor left to make some tea.

The man turned to Lestrade at the question and placed the dagger he was holding back on the mantlepiece before replying. "Hm? Ah... yes, but our meetings were too far in between. However, his assistance in those times were invaluable to my cases."

Lestrade arched an eyebrow. "You're a consulting detective as well?"

Holmes lips went tight with irritation. "Yes, I suppose so," he said in a huff before he sat himself on the sofa with an annoyed look on his face.

Lestrade stared at him, amazed how much Holmes' attitude reminded him of Sherlock. Their features were nearly the same as well: the same long face, a prominent chin and high cheek-bones with pale skin and dark ebony hair (minus the curls). The only hawkish feature he has which was reminiscent of Mycroft was the sharp nose along with the murky green of his eyes. Holmes was definitely older than Sherlock but the haggard and tired look on the man's face made it difficult for Lestrade to figure out if he was older or as young as Mycroft.

Not only were the man's physical attributes similar to the two Holmes' brothers that he knew, it was further proof at how much Holmes reminded him of Sherlock when the brunette's mood suddenly shifted by quickly sitting up from his slouch to regard Lestrade with a piercing look.

"Doctor Watson mentioned that you are an inspector of the Scotland Yard?"

"_Detective_ Inspector," Lestrade said, stressing the D word.

"_Detective_ Inspector?" Holmes acquired a gleam of interest in his eyes. "How interesting. I do so love mysteries. Are there any enticing cases that you can divulge that can help me shake off this addle-mindedness that has over-come me this afternoon?"

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. Holmes did look confused and nearly out of his mind in panic when he and John took the man down, but now that look was gone, replaced by a sharp one behind a watery smile and hunched shoulders that reminded him of Sherlock who could change his whole demeanor at a blink of an eye. If he was indeed related to Sherlock, Lestrade would bet his team a night of drinks that Holmes was attempting to lure him into a sense of mistrust.

"Well," Lestrade said slowly, "Off the record, mind you, because there's this one case that started out as unofficial. It has to do with one of Mrs Turner's tenant from next door. His name's Nathan Garrideb. Mrs Turner has a soft spot for the old man and she told Mrs Hudson over a cup of tea that an American with the surname Garrideb has been coming over Nathan Garrideb's flat about a will that promises a lot of money if there were three male Garridebs in attendance in front of the lawyers. They only needed one more male Gerrideb to inherit. Mrs Turner was afraid he was about to be conned but Nathan Garrideb said that the American hasn't asked for money or any sort of things so there wasn't anything to make a fuss about."

"Are you telling him about that thing with the three Gerridebs?" John asked, bringing a tray of tea to the common room from the kitchen. "Mrs Turner hasn't stopped asking for my health since then."

"Well, you have been shot," Lestrade reminded him, accepting the cup of tea from John. "Ta."

Holmes ignored the tea John placed in front of him and stared at the doctor. "You were shot?"

"Just a graze," John assured him, "Mrs Turner saw blood and thought I was dying. She felt she was responsible because she did ask for my help before it all happened with the Yarders coming into it."

"She also gave him a cup used by the American on one of his visits, unwashed, and ask him whether he can get it analysed for his fingerprints," Lestrade told Holmes wryly before turning to John, "You were lucky I had forensics crawling with newly-minted interns who were eager to do some side-jobs for me."

John muttered something about "silver-fox fans" that Lestrade studiously ignored by continuing his narration. "They found a hit on the FBI-NSY co-op criminal database record that identified the American as James Winter alias Morecroft alias "Killer" Evans who escaped from prison after murdering three men in the States. They were all involved in a counterfeit operation that was still unsolved and he was about to enter a deal with the police before he escaped. The interns printed out the pictures of the two murdered men which Mrs Turner identified one of them as being her ex-tenant who rented the flat two years ago where Nathan Gerrideb now lives."

"Then there was that advertisement in the papers about gardening tools owned by a Howard Gerrideb in Birmingham," said John, "I had enough issues with spell-checkers to last me a lifetime so it was easy to spot the American spelling in the advert."

"So, I called the section in charge of the counterfeit with a few tips and they had Nathan Gerrideb suddenly wanting to visit Birmingham and when the old man 'left'," Lestrade made air-quotes, "them and my team hid at Mrs Turner's and busted on Winter taking out counterfeit plates from under the floorboards of Nathan Gerrideb's bedroom. John here happened to be on the scene where Winter managed to escape the boys before he tackled the man _after_ _he was shot_."

"Just a graze," John said again, sipping his tea serenely.

"That was amazing!" Holmes said, clasping his palms together in delight. "Simply amazing!"

"Errr... yeah..." Lestrade said uncertainly. If it was Sherlock, the man would've scoffed at how utterly simple and mundane the case was.

"I know of a Lestrade. Also an inspector... sans detective. If you are related, your ties would be far in the tree-line because there is little similarity in both of your facial features," Holmes said, fluttering his fingers at the direction of Lestrade's face, "You are quite handsome and the Lestrade that I know of has been aptly described as a little sallow rat-faced, dark-eyed fellow. However, he is one of the few I have hopes for improvement should he constantly apply reasoning by deduction in his work. You are what I envisioned if that was accomplished!"

"Ummm... thanks..." Lestrade managed while John bit his lip to restrain himself from laughing at the DI's embarrassment either at being called handsome or a great character of deductive prowess.

The DI scrambled to say something to take away the man's enthusiastic regard of him. "If you want more, maybe John can show you his old blog..." Lestrade suddenly looked towards John, guilty, "I mean... if he doesn't mind..."

"No... no, I don't mind," John replied sounding honestly surprised that he meant it.

"Okay... Well, looks like your moving out is postponed for another day," Lestrade announced, standing up.

John and Holmes stood up as well. "Yeah, sorry about that," the doctor said, "I'm going to help him settle down for a bit. I'll call you later, yeah, and we'll have a drink? On me."

"Then it'll be stupid of me to refuse," Lestrade said, shaking John's hand with a grin. "See you, John. See you, Mr Holmes."

Holmes bowed his head and as Lestrade was about to leave, the DI turned back to the man and asked, "Would you happen to know the first name of the Inspector Lestrade that you spoke of?"

Holmes waved his hand in the air of careless manner. "I only know him G. Lestrade. I've forgotten what it stood for and we've never been close enough for me to call him by his first name so I deem it unnecessary to know. Our relationship has been professional so far."

"Right," Lestrade said wryly, "Good to know I wasn't the only one. Well, bye."

The DI finally left. The two waited for the sound of the door downstairs closing before Holmes rounded at John with fervour in his eyes. "Doctor Watson! Your world is astounding! Forensics in police work? A section dedicated to counterfeiting? A vast record of criminal networks which spans the America and Britain? I don't know where to begin!"

John laughed and sat down on his chair, prompting Holmes to sit down opposite him with a wave of his hand. "Let's begin at how you came to be here... in my world, as you say."

"Ah," said Sherlock with a tired sigh, "I was out in the highlands while my companion Watson stayed in London to concentrate on his medical practice at Paddington. I was in a bad state and needed time to sort my thoughts. Night time was often fraught with dreams... nightmares of monsters and watery graves... I tried so hard not to succumb to the lure of instant mind-numbing gratification of morphine, but one night I did. One moment I was enjoying the initial calm of that first hit and the next I was violently ill. It was a miserable affair as I tried to clean myself as much as I could, wishing I was back in Baker Street, sane and healthy and that was the last thought in my mind before I passed out. It seemed mere minutes before I woke up here, upstairs in your flatmate's room."

John looked at Holmes in surprise. "You... you took drugs? Morphine? What's the prescription given to you?"

"The only prescription is reliant to the state of my thoughts," Holmes said, "At first it was for lack of stimulation for my mind. Now it is for the dreams. Cocaine is as functionable but the after-effect leaves a disgusting taste in my mouth and a pain in my head."

"I see... Right..." the doctor leaned forward and gave Holmes a look of seriousness. "Look, Holmes. Here, narcotics of that class - morphine and cocaine - is illegal to take for recreation. If you're having troubles inside your head, there are other means, if not chemical then a simple solution of proper sustenance and plenty of rest."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "That was what Watson said."

"Wise man," John told him.

The consulting detective chuckled. "Now, what is this blog Detective Inspector Lestrade speaks of?"


	3. Chapter 3

DI Greg Lestrade took a sip of his coffee as he shuffled the stack of files on his desk, thinking which one to tackle first. It was only ten hours ago that he last saw John with Holmes and he found himself in a rare moment of peacefulness when there was no urgent situation to be handled by himself personally thus having the time to at last catch up on his paperwork that Sally has been hounding him for for the past three weeks.

Lestrade's phone rang and he automatically reached out to pick up the receiver without looking up from his work and said, "Yeah?" He blinked when all he could hear was the dial tone before he realised that it was his mobile phone that was ringing. He rolled his eyes, pushing the files around to hunt for his phone before he found it under some sheaf of papers that has slipped out from one of the files. When he looked at the screen, he gave a quiet sigh, knowing whose phone number it was that it only shows as 'With Held', especially considering that he just met another Holmes the day before.

The DI pressed the button and willed himself not to sound too put-out when he spoke, "Good morning, Mr Holmes."

"Good morning, Detective Inspector," said Mycroft, in that posh drawl and of his. Sherlock and the other Holmes sounded like him and Lestrade wondered how it would be like to hear them talking with one another in a room. The DI shuddered inwardly. He'd probably want to flee before he being assaulted by the gravity of their combined intellect and their disdain on the less-clever populace.

"I have just been informed that Dr Watson has not moved to his new apartment in Kensington as of last night. Was there a problem?" Mycroft asked, breaking Lestrade out of his thoughts.

"No, no problem at all... Well, just that one of yours made a surprise visit at Dr Watson's flat yesterday afternoon so he's playing host at the moment," Lestrade said, tipping his chair back.

There was a short pause of silence before Mycroft asked, "One of mine?"

"Yeah. I never did get a first name. Dr Watson calls him Holmes. He's like Sherlock, somewhat, just seems a bit flighty..."

"Physical description?"

Lestrade furrowed his brow. "A little over six feet, looks like he's in his late 30's to early forties, dark hair, hazel eyes, pale skin."

Mycroft made a thoughtful sound.

"He _is_ your relative, isn't he?" Lestrade asked, suddenly sitting up.

"Hm? Ah, yes. No need to concern yourself about it, Detective Inspector. Thank you for your time," the man replied smoothly, "Good bye."

"Bye," Lestrade said before Mycroft ended the call. The DI stared at his phone for a few seconds before shaking his head in resignation. His gut instinct tells him that something was off in that conversation but knowing how secretive Mycroft Holmes can be, he won't know until he is told. Until then, he'd do his work and if he's not busy, he'd pop by 221B at the end of the week to see how John and his new guest were faring.

* * *

Last night, John left Holmes with his laptop on before going to sleep in exhaustion. Holmes took to the internet like a fish to the water and at the back of his mind, John wondered if he would be affecting Holmes' life in a bad way if or when the man goes back to his time in 1800's. Then again, the man is a _Holmes_. He would be able to gather any sort of information without his help and it would be better that John was the one to help him get a footing on the modern world rather than be let loose outside without knowledge and be thought nutters by the general public of London.

The doctor quite enjoyed the shocked look on the Holmes' face when the man came across some of the summer fashions of the year and really, he ought to be thankful that they were in London rather than, say somewhere in America where people tend to sell their soul to get the latest skimpy fashion wares and where temperatures are higher than the average 24 degrees of London. Sure, there were still exposures of skin that Holmes would feel embarrassed about but at least, the women of London are more bundled-up compared their American counterparts, especially with the frequent summer rainfall this year. Also, it was already the middle of September so he needn't worry about offending Holmes' Victorian sensibilities.

A few hours after leaving Holmes to his own devices (as well as leaving the man a pot of tea and packet of Jaffa cakes and some jam filled biscuits) John came down to the sight of Holmes staring out the window with Sherlock's bow and violin in his hands. John felt like his heart stopped for a moment at how eerily similar the man was to Sherlock from where he was standing. Holmes was easily as tall as Sherlock - probably a few inches taller - and when on their first meeting Holmes has a more robust physique, now the man looked too lean that bordered on the unhealthy.

John cleared his throat before saying out in greeting, "Good morning, Holmes."

Holmes turned around and after a short while, shook off the look of deep thought on his face to reply, "Good morning, Doctor Watson."

"Did you ever get some sleep last night?" John asked with a sigh.

"I did," Holmes said, "Only a short one to recuperate my energies. I did mention before that I was not of a sound mind that made me fled to the highlands before I turned up here. Sorting my thoughts is an exercise of mental patience and tenacity. It can be quite taxing. However, oh, this world is so full of new ideas from ground-breaking to humorously useless that I think my mind might rebel for fear of being devoured by this deluge of information. My mind savours this world and at the same time tries to shut itself away from it. It is like a cursed third eye that can make a man mad if he is not able to close it before it is too late."

"Then don't think too much about it," John suggested.

Holmes gave John a pained smile. "I am afraid my mind does not work that way."

John has nothing to say that except to offer, "Let me make us some tea."

In the kitchen, John could hear the Stradivarius being tuned and plucked before a strain of music came wafting from the sitting room. John stopped for a moment, listening to the haunting notes of the music and by the time he was bringing the tea out, the music has become melancholic before it suddenly quickened into a passionate tempo. The bow seemed to glide smoothly on the strings by deft hands and slender fingers danced on the neck of the violin.

As John looked at Holmes standing by the window, he saw Sherlock's form interspersed with the older man, both consulting detectives playing to soothe and unscramble their brilliant yet chaotic thoughts by immersing themselves with music. The difference between them was only miniscule, where when Sherlock played, his form would sway more following the music whereas Holmes is more restrained but both have the same passion in their eyes and in the notes they weave out of their bows. Seeing his friend in Holmes, the doctor was close to shedding a tear.

When Holmes was done, John was ready to open his mouth to utter a praise when he heard someone clapping from behind him. He turned around to see that the door to their flat was open and there stood Mycroft, his hands clasped with an unreadable look of his face while Mrs Hudson who was standing behind him stared at Holmes in shock.

"Ah. Good morning Mrs Hudson!" John greeted before saying to Mycroft with less enthusiasm. "Mycroft."

"John," the man acknowledged.

"Mycroft?" Holmes said before he started chuckling lowly, looking at Mycroft from head to toe and his grey-green eyes skimming a bit longer at the waist. Mycroft frowned.

"Oh dear," Mrs Hudson said, her voice shaking, "I-I thought... Oh! I'm sorry, John dear. I didn't know you had a guest up here. I didn't hear him come in."

"That's alright, Mrs Hudson," John told her, "he dropped by last night. I didn't want to wake you, what with the trouble with your hip and all."

"Ah, yes. I-" she stared at Holmes again before turning back to John with a weak smile, "Well, let me leave you gentlemen to it."

Mycroft waited until the sound of Mrs Hudson's footsteps receded down the stairs before he turned to Holmes with a genial smile on his lips. "That was a interesting piece that you have just played. It has the essence of Mendelssohn and Schumann before it turns frivolously theatrical at the end, yet it suits the ensemble well. Is it a recent composition?"

"Mmm, yes," Holmes replied, putting the bow and violin carefully back in the case. "I composed it myself."

"Hmm. Impressive."

Holmes turned to Mycroft and with a smile, motioned the man to join him at the window. Mycroft hesitated for a bit before he stepped towards the window to stand beside him.

"Those two men down there that you've undoubtedly saw as you arrived," Holmes said, motioning outside the window where they could see Mycroft's car parked in front of the flat and beside it, two men were talking with each other. "What do you make of them?"

"Of the mechanic and the other?" Mycroft asked, looking at the two men on the street.

"Precisely. What do you make of the other?

"An old soldier," Mycroft remarked.

Holmes nodded. "And very recently discharged."

"From Iraq, I see."

"And a non commissioned-officer."

"From the auxiliary, I gather."

"And a widower."

"With a child."

"Children, Mr Mycroft. Children."

Mycroft smirked. "I beg to differ. You see two bags. One, containing toys for a toddler and the other with books suitable for a ten year old. What you did not hear when I was walking up to this flat was the ex-soldier mentioning to his acquaintance about giving some of his daughter's old belongings to the charity shop down the road. Of the two bags, it is highly probable that the old belongings he mentioned would be toddler's toys, not the books for a ten-year old."

Holmes leaned forward closer to the window before he acquiesced, "Ah yes, the creases of the bags holding the books and toys. The paper bag for the books is new, therefore the books are newly purchased as a present for the daughter whereas the bag for the toys have been fairly used multiple times, evident by the different folds on the paper." He murmured, "I missed that from this height."

Mycroft smiled, a mixture of smug and enjoyment.

There was a few seconds of silence before Mycroft held out his hand to Holmes. "Mycroft Holmes. An acquaintance of John. And you are?"

Holmes smiled, matching Mycroft's own as he took Mycroft's hand for a firm shake. "Charles Holmes."

Mycroft made a thoughtful sound. "The Holmes is a very old family line and I know all the names, particularly those of our generation," Mycroft said, "It is shocking that I've not heard of you."

"My family and I keep to ourselves," Holmes said easily, "We mostly spend our time in the French country-side, at the home belonging to my mother. We normally use my mother's maiden name Vernet when staying in France, so not everyone knows that we are also from the Holmes family."

Mycroft chuckled in amusement. "Charles Vernet. How quaint."

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Yes. Quite. Not much of a painter, I fear."

"From what I've heard you play, it is of no loss, I assure you," Mycroft said. "Also, your skill in deduction is at par with my brother, Sherlock, and that is saying something. Tell me, have you met Sherlock before?"

"Sherlock? No. Although, Dr Watson has told me so much about him that I feel that I've already met him," Sherlock said, looking at the doctor.

Mycroft looked at John as well, trying to figure out what the doctor was hiding from him.

"What?" John said, affecting an innocent look. Surely, Mycroft wouldn't be able to discern that he and Holmes have time-travelled or dimension-hopped or whatever it is that has happened to them. It was too fantastical for a logical-minded man to accept.

"That is a handsome looking umbrella that you have on your hand," Holmes commented, wrenching Mycroft's attention away from John.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your umbrella. A very elegant one, if I may say so," Holmes said, gesturing to the luxurious umbrella on Mycroft's hand. "Bark Chestnut with a solid shaft and nylon - no, silk waterproof canopy. How extravagant. A gift? From your father?"

Mycroft's voice was cool when he answered, "Yes. And I assume you gathered it from the wear of the handle and the engraving on the silver collar."

"Indeed," Holmes said before he muttered lowly, "It does not cease to be ironic."

Mycroft seemed to have heard because his eyes narrowed minutely, seemingly understanding what Holmes was saying yet unable to confirm it without being sure. He stared at Holmes so hard that he could've burnt holes on the man's face if he was capable, before the suited man forced a smile on his face and turned back to John.

"Well, John, I just came for a visit and please do inform me when you've moved so I may come by to visit you in your new accommodation."

"Will do, thanks," John said, tucking his hands in his pockets carelessly.

"I'll take my leave, then. John," Mycroft said before turning to Holmes, "Charles."

Holmes bowed his head and he and John watched as Mycroft left before the doctor closed to door tightly behind him.

"That was amazing!" John laughed.

Holmes grinned. "About the two men? Or the umbrella?"

John blinked. "Hm? Oh! Those, too. But more of how you managed to get him out of here in a huff. I've not seen him look so stumped unless Sherlock somehow knew of something the British government has no knowledge of. And that was so far in between."

"Fortunately, I have an advantage over him," Holmes said, walking up to the window to watch Mycroft look up for a few seconds before the man got into the car and be driven off. "I know someone like him. The someone has one of the greatest mind in all of Britain yet he has no ambition nor energy to use it to its full potential. This Mycroft has the mind _and_ the ambition but he lacks the energy... the passion... and to be unable to deduce who I am has made his brain stutter whereas one with passion would revel in the mystery. It will buy us some time before he comes back, this time, I fear, with force."

"I've no doubt about that," John agreed grimly.

* * *

Mycroft gripped the handle of his umbrella in his hand tightly to avoid himself from tapping his fingers on the upholstery in annoyance. It was a bad habit that he has taught himself to eradicate if he was to succeed in difficult negotiations and discussions where any outward sign of his feelings was a weakness. He wasn't called the Iceman for nothing.

He will probably have to visit Uncle Horace, their family's unofficial genealogist, to enquire about this Charles fellow and see whether he was a fraud or not. If he was, then he would have to extract Dr Watson from the man's influence. If he wasn't, Charles would either be a valuable ally or a formidable opponent. Or merely an annoyance that he would have to resign himself to monitor because of their shared name and particularly clever mind.

Suddenly, the phone in his pocket rang with a familiar tone and he took it out, answering, "Yes?"

"Sir, there has been a situation."

"What is it?"

"The Mazarin Diamond. It has been stolen from the British Museum."


	4. Chapter 4

John juggled with two bags of groceries in his arms and a rolled up newspaper tucked under his arm-pit as he made his way up the stairs to 221B. When he opened the door, he expected to see Holmes in front of the computer again, browsing the internet, watching the tv or playing with the violin, but what he saw instead made him pause.

Sitting on John's chair was Mycroft and across him on the sofa sat Holmes who managed to affect an air of careless non-chalance at the presence of the other man.

"Morning, Mycroft," John greeted, walking past their sitting room to get to the kitchen, "Bit early today for a visit."

"Good morning John," Mycroft replied, "Yes, needs must. I bring forth a matter of national importance."

"Oh?" John stopped rummaging through the grocery bags and went to join the two, sitting at the other end of the sofa across Holmes. "What happened?"

Holmes fluttered his long fingers carelessly to the direction of the coffee table where John just realised sat a file of incongruous look. Perching at the edge of his seat, John leaned forward and flipped the file open to spread the loose papers across the manila cover.

"Mycroft brings to us an interesting case where a precious stone of historical significance was stolen from the national museum three days ago. The Mazarin Diamond."

John picked up the picture of the stone sitting resplendant on a dark velvet pillow, the light reflecting through the diamond scattered like bright pale amber drops on the dark cushion. "I saw this on tv. Isn't this the last week of display before it goes to France?"

"Goes back to France," Mycroft corrected, "It was named after the Chief Minister of France, Jules Mazarin, during the reign of Louis the XIV. Jules Mazarin was an avid collector of precious gems and throughout the years there has been speculations among historians and theorists that it came from among the Mazarin's coffer before he bequethed his whole diamond collection to his King upon his death. At this moment, the diamond belongs to the Queen of England but in a week's time, as a gesture of goodwill, Her Majesty has ordered that the diamond be flown to France to join the official collection of the Mazarin Diamonds for study and safe-keeping in the Louvre for an indefinite period of time."

John snorted. "So what are saying? Not being able to hand over one diamond will cause political scandal?"

"Oh dear me, no, John," Mycroft said in a tone that managed to sound condescending and berating at the same time, "This is not the 18th century. An incident such as witholding a supposedly historical item is a small smear compared to say the territorial row on the Falkland Islands or the phone hacking scandal by NoW -"

"GCHQ."

"Heresay, doctor."

John huffed in amusement.

"What is at stake is not the reputation of the country for not providing adequate safe-keeping of the stone, no. It's the safety of a whole nation and many more if the stone is not found," Mycroft continued, "The diamond, other than its beauty for it's exquisite cut, is also hailed for its unique composition that allows beams of irradiated uranium isotopes and at the same time retain the consistency of light particles to be directed at wherever one desires it to be directed to."

"Aaaand... what does this beam do, actually?" John joked. "Scan tins of tomato soup? Veggies?"

"Bounced from reflective surface in space through an ionosphere particle beam, it can decimate a wide range of area on earth, smaller than the radius of a nuclear explosion but just as deadly combined with unerring accuracy."

"Good God," John murmured, "It's a death ray."

Holmes made a sound of question while Mycroft curled his lips in a small sneer.

"I'm glad Charles lacks the knowledge of pop-culture and fictional fantasy as Sherlock," Mycroft said, "Because that sounded slightly juvenile."

"What?" John scoffed. "It causes death and destruction. It's a death ray."

"I thought that aptly named, myself," Holmes said, seriously sounding confused.

Mycroft ignored them. "We have a list of suspects and at the head of this list is Alphonso Sylvius who has dual citizenship in Italy and Britain. He has been on the terror watch-list since 2010, facilitating the sales and purchases of guns and explosives in the UK and overseas."

John looked through the file again for a few moments before putting it down with a sigh. "I don't know, Mycroft. Without Sherlock, I can't even begin to know what should be done first and I don't think Charles not having spent much time in England will be able to properly devote his time to this case with the urgency that you must have-"

"You will provide us anything we require to solve this case?" Holmes asked.

Mycroft tilted his head in agreement. "Of course."

"Then we will take it," Holmes said.

"Holmes!" John protested.

"Excellent," Mycroft said, pleased as he took out his phone for a call with just one instruction, "You may come up."

A few seconds later, a beautiful dark-haired woman who John was aquainted with walked in and Holmes was instantly on his feet, prompting the doctor to follow. Mycroft remained seated and said, "Catherine will help you with whatever you need."

John looked at the woman. "Catherine is it?"

The woman smiled. "For now."

Mycroft stood up. "I will take my leave now. Good day, gentleman."

Mycroft was already at the landing when John snapped himself out of his stupour to chase after the man. "You're up to something, Mycroft," he accused, "You can't possibly trust someone you just met a few days ago to deal with a case this big."

"True," Mycroft asqueisced, "But from the few minutes with him, I see the brilliance in his mind and if he is anything like Sherlock, he'll find this a challenge."

"But why him?" John pressed. "Okay, you probably hate the leg-work or don't want to be associated with the process of retrieving the diamond but I know you have loads of people at your disposal who will be more equipped to deal with this than a distant relative from the French country-side."

"The same reason why I always want Sherlock to work my cases. He is a genius."

"But he's not Sherlock," John said, sounding shattered as he gripped the bannister tightly that his fingers went white. "He's not."

"No, he's not," Mycroft acknowledged in a sombre tone, "He is, however, an enigma."

John gave a shaky laugh. "Is Catherine here to spy on him?"

Mycroft smiled before he turned back around to continue his way down the stairs towards the front door. "Good day John. Call me if you and Charles find anything vital."

"You'll probably know first through Catherine," John shot back.

When Mycroft shut the door behind him, the man didn't look back but John just knew that a smug smile was on the man's face.

John sighed and went back to 221B and found Holmes and Catherine sizing each other up before Holmes opened his mouth to ask, "What assistance can you provide us, Ms..."

"Just call me Catherine, Mr Vernet."

"It feels highly inappropriate."

"Mr Holmes call me Catherine, so it would only be logical if the man who he entrusts in my care do the same."

"Which goes back to my original question as to your range of tasks."

"Anything you need to expedite the return of the diamond, sir. You need not even walk out of this room."

Holmes chuckled. "I need to find out the suspect's whereabouts, his habits, his relations and interview the last person who saw to the safe-keeping of the stone-"

"Done," Catherine cut through, "I have opened a secure e-mail account for you where I've sent all that you require concerning the suspect as well as a video interview of the museum staff directly in charge of security and administration, all the questions scripted by Mr Holmes himself. If after you've gone through all that and need more, you just ask and I will do my best to accomodate your request."

"The lay-out of the museum, the scene where the theft that has taken place-"

"The hard-copy of the blueprint of the museum will be couriered shortly and pictures from the crime scene has been sent to you..." she made a few taps on her phone before looking back at Holmes with a smile. "...a moment ago. There were four casualties: two museum guards, a cleaner and a man, Alfred Boyard, who is suspected to have been contracted by Sylvius to steal the diamond. Boyard was found wearing the dead's cleaner's uniform and an autopsy revealed that Boyard died upon being shot at the temporal aorta."

Holmes stared at Catherine for a long moment before he walked up to her and offered his hands, palms up. The woman looked at the hands in confusion before she slowly placed her hands in his where he proceeded to lift them up to his lips for a chaste yet reverant kiss.

"My dear, you are a delight. I cannot remember a time where I feel such envy that a man has a woman such as your lovely self in his employ."

Just as quickly, Holmes stepped back, leaving Catherine still holding her hands in the air and a blush on her fair cheeks.

John cleared his throat loudly. "He was shot in the head, you said? That's odd. Normally, people aim for the area below the neck. Bigger chance to get a shot."

"Yes. The guard must have been surprised by more than one thief and managed to kill Mr Boyard with an erratic shot." Holmes gave a disdainful sniff. "It's already so obvious that he wasn't working alone, Dr Watson."

John rolled his eyes as Holmes made his way quickly to the laptop sitting on the table near the window. "Now! Let us see what wonderful imformation has been sent to us, shall we?"

The doctor made to follow the man when he suddenly stopped to turn back to Catherine. "The secure e-mail... how do we-"

"The link has been sent to you via your chat account, Dr Watson," Catherine said smoothly.

"Thanks, I-"

"Dr Watson!" Holmes hollered.

"He calls," Catherine said with an amused smile on her lips.

"Right." John sighed and walked up to Holmes who was waiting for him impatiently. "Hold your horses."

Holmes grinned. "Horses may not be needed, doctor, if we are indeed to solve this mystery within the confinement of this room."

"She probably meant that figuratively," John pointed out.

"Now where's the challenge in that," Holmes drawled and behind them, they heard Catherine give a small laugh.


End file.
